Later that morning, we finally arrived in Luxor. The Winter Palace Hotel was a very fancy affair. It stood on the banks of the Nile like a giant frosted cake, with two sets of wide steps leading up to it, and a turning circle for cabs at the front. It was about as un-Grandad-like as any place could be.
‘It’s so swanky, Tulip!’ I whispered, giving my dusty shoes a fierce wipe on the mat before going inside.
‘It’s THE hotel to be staying at,’ Tulip whispered back.
Though she was clearly excited by this, it worried me. With a jar this valuable in my suitcase, experts and archaeologists were the very last type of people I wanted to be around.
‘Is the Valley of the Kings far from here?’ I asked.
‘Only a few miles on the other side of the river.’
Which was better news. A quick wash and a rest in our room, and we’d sneak out when Mrs Mendoza was working. A few miles wasn’t far: we could walk it.
Tulip was right about Mr Ibrahim: when I asked one of the hotel staff, he confirmed there was no one working here with that name. Not that we needed him now, thankfully. Lysandra had given us the details we’d been after.
Tulip was also right about the other hotel guests. The reception area was jam-packed with men in suits, and what with the bare marble floors and the ceilings full of whirling fans the place echoed like it did at our school pool on swimming gala day. Everyone seemed to be talking about one thing: the dig.
‘… Carter’s got till the Americans start complaining …’
‘… the grave-robbers took all the gold …’
‘… there’s something about that valley – gives me the heebie-jeebies …’
As Mrs Mendoza fought her way to the reception desk, we waited with our luggage. It was hard not to be excited, but I was tired, which made everything seem loud and too bright. Poor Oz was also drooping badly, though Tulip had enough bounce for the three of us.
‘Thrilling, isn’t it?’ Her eyes were everywhere. ‘Can’t see any women here, though.’
‘There’s one.’ I nodded at a young woman who was sitting alone at a table. She had fashionably bobbed hair like Mrs Mendoza’s.
Tulip gasped in delight. ‘Do you know who that is?’
I shook my head.
‘That’s Lady Evelyn.’ Tulip dropped her voice. ‘Lord Carnarvon’s daughter. She’s the one who had the canary.’
Even before the canary incident, I’d read about her in the newspapers. Like her father, she collected old treasures and wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty if it meant finding good pieces.
Standing here now, just feet away from such a key person in the Carter dig, didn’t exactly steady my nerves.
Thankfully, at that moment Mrs Mendoza reappeared. Something was wrong. Fanning herself furiously with a piece of paper, she broke the news: ‘Would you believe it, we can’t stay here. Every single room is booked out.’
‘No, Mama, that can’t be right,’ Tulip insisted.
I glared at her to shut up and not give the game away.
She mouthed back: ‘I booked it, I swear!’ But at least she had the good sense to keep quiet.
‘Oh,’ Mrs Mendoza said, almost as an afterthought, ‘this came for you, Lil.’
I looked down at the envelope she was handing me.
And there it was: a telegram from London. It was signed by Mum, dated ten o’clock this morning. Nervous, I licked my lips. There was only one reason I could think of that my mum would send a telegram here: Grandad.
I didn’t want to open it, but I couldn’t bear not to. The others were discussing where to get rooms, so I turned away, just long enough to prise open the telegram.
‘GRANDAD GLAD YOU’RE THERE – STOP – DOCTORS SAY FADING – STOP – SAYS GOODBYE.’
I didn’t want to cry. Or collapse in a heap over this lovely marble floor. But right then I felt sure I was about to do both.
‘What is it, Lil?’ Tulip looked at me, concerned.
‘It’s not good news,’ I admitted.
Tulip’s face fell. ‘Oh no! He hasn’t—?’
‘Not yet,’ I said quickly before she could say the word. ‘But he’s going to, so we absolutely have to go to the valley today.’
She understood. ‘Mama? Can we find somewhere, pronto, please? Lil and I are rather exhausted.’
‘Mr Ahmed at reception knows a very nice place,’ said a voice behind us. ‘If you don’t mind staying along the river a little way.’
Whilst all the other men were in jackets, the one now addressing us was in shirtsleeves, his arms nut-brown, his teeth large and white in his weathered face. I recognised him instantly in one big hot-cold rush.
Howard Carter.
‘Hullo, Madeleine!’ he boomed. It took me a moment to realise he was talking to Mrs Mendoza. ‘You don’t have to tell me what brings you here!’
I felt my jaw drop – he knew Mrs Mendoza? She stretched out her arm. Most people I’d seen her do this to kissed her hand: Howard Carter shook it.
‘You haven’t enticed us all here for nothing, have you?’ she teased. ‘You have actually found something out in the desert?’
Instinctively, I slipped my fingers through my suitcase handle. I didn’t dare look at Tulip or Oz. Nor could I believe their mother was on first-name terms with Howard Carter!
Mr Carter glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. ‘Oh yes. We’ve found something, all right.’
‘Howard!’ Lady Evelyn was on her feet. An older man who’d just joined her came over to us, holding out his hand.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he said, greeting Mrs Mendoza. ‘Lord Carnarvon. A pleasure, I’m sure.’
I nudged Tulip: she nudged me back. Both of us stared at the small, slightly built man standing before us. His money was paying for the dig. His love of old artefacts had brought him all this way, which was funny, because he didn’t seem that excited. If anything, he looked completely exhausted.
‘Papa, we don’t need to speak to every reporter crossing our path,’ Lady Evelyn insisted, bringing a swift end to Lord Carnarvon’s introduction before it had really got going. ‘That new chap from the Washington Post hasn’t even arrived yet and he’s already cabled here, pestering for an interview.’
Mrs Mendoza’s mouth hardened, just like Tulip’s did when she was cross. True to his word, the editor’s replacement was on his way. At least we’d got here first.
The conversation quickly changed tack, as if news reporters were something of a sore point. Lord Carnarvon, whose gracious smile was a match for Mrs Mendoza’s, bid us farewell before disappearing off with his daughter.
‘If you’ve nowhere else to stay, Madeleine, the offer’s there,’ Mr Carter said, all jovial again. ‘It’s a short way down the river. Mr Ahmed at reception will take you.’
*
The ferry took us back across the river. All the way, Mrs Mendoza gushed to Mr Ahmed about how grateful she was to him for finding us somewhere to stay.
‘And,’ Mr Ahmed told us proudly, ‘it’s very close to the Valley of the Kings, see?’
He pointed inland, away from the lush green riverbanks to where the landscape turned dusty and bare. In amongst it was a house where the motorcars parked outside glinted in the sun.
‘How do you reach it?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.
‘Follow the path all the way past Castle Carter,’ Mr Ahmed explained. ‘On the main road, keep walking for two, maybe three miles. Valley is left of the road.’
I took careful note of all this, but had to ask: ‘Castle Carter? Is that the house’s name?’
‘It’s Mr Carter’s home,’ Mr Ahmed said. ‘See how close he lives to where you’ll be staying! How wonderful for you!’
‘He’s keeping an eye on us,’ I muttered under my breath, as we lagged behind the grown-ups. ‘That’s why he recommended it.’
‘Then we’ll keep an eye on him too, won’t we?’ Tulip insisted.
Which was exactly what the young man on the train had said. I also kept in mind Grandad’s point about how Mr Carter dazzled people like a sun king. Yet not everyone was suspicious of him. It seemed he’d already cast his spell on Mr Ahmed.
On the other side of the river, we had to go along the bank, past fishermen and boat-menders, with stray dogs sniffing at our heels. We were walking for what felt like ages. It was awfully hot. On a day like this in London we’d be sitting in the park, eating ices. Here, the local men wore their galabiya – the long shirt-like gowns – with jackets over the top, jumpers, knitted waistcoats. A few had on hats and scarves.
‘An Egyptian winter,’ Tulip said, lifting her hair off the back of her neck. ‘Imagine what it’s like in summer.’
We passed a boy about our age, barefoot in a galabiya, with a huge, woolly scarf around his throat. He was tending a pair of grumpy-looking camels; when he saw us he beamed, and despite how grim I felt, I managed a smile back.
‘Don’t encourage him!’ Tulip warned. ‘He’ll think you want to buy his camels.’
‘Are the camels for sale, then?’ Oz asked.
‘They could be for hire.’ I pointed to the squares of carpet on their humps. On top of each was a wooden rack that might’ve been for clinging on to: I couldn’t imagine how you’d actually sit on it.
Tulip fell about laughing at the camel nearest us. ‘Ha! That one looks like you, Oz!’
Oz didn’t see the funny side.
*
Shortly after the camels, the path got fainter, the palm trees thicker. My feet were dragging. Much more of this walking and we’d be back in Cairo again. At last, up ahead, I saw a jetty where a boat was moored, the sort of boat people lived on. Like a barge.
‘Dahabiyeh.’ Mr Ahmed gestured to the boat. ‘Yours, my friends, for as long as you wish.’
I gasped out loud: I couldn’t help it, because it was, without doubt, a splendid place to stay. The boat was long and low in the water, with a beautiful white balcony that gleamed in the sun. On deck there were hammocks and armchairs for lounging in, and from inside came herby, meaty smells of something delicious being cooked.
‘I expect Lil’s had enough of boats, haven’t you?’ Tulip grinned, reminding me of what a lousy sailor I’d been on the journey from Athens.
‘I love it,’ I admitted, and from the glint in her eye I knew she did too.
It struck me again how clever she was – not bookishly like Oz, or Alex, but in how she reached out to people. I’d needed her help and she’d given it in spade-loads. She’d booked our train tickets, tried to get the best hotel rooms – all without batting an eyelid. But for her, and her family, I’d still be in London, waiting for Grandad to die. At least here we had a fighting chance.
‘Thanks, Tulip,’ I said. ‘For everything.’
She looked at me with that confident, lopsided smile I’d come to love. ‘Don’t thank me yet. There’s plenty that still could go wrong.’
She was right about that too, as it turned out.